


Do Not Go Gentle

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Buried Alive, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve was settling into a comfortable life, he was taking down walls he threw up around himself the moment he'd woken up in a fake hospital room, dressed up like a doll in a diorama. He was learning that there were people worth knowing, people worth continuing to fight for. Until Spring came, and everything fell apart.</p><p>When everyone you cared for was gone or marked down next on the list, why bother?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve/Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Everything is going to be okay.**
> 
> Tagging for the main conflict now to give you all a heads up and I'll add tags for any other ships or important elements as they become relevant. I don't want to dump this into any ship tags when it doesn't yet include them.  
> The first chapter will be short, more intro than anything, and I'll go from there :)  
> This first section utilizes the canon timeline but doesn't follow it strictly, as does the rest of the story.

The last time Steve could remember feeling as light as he did was the first time he met Peggy. Before that, maybe the day he was accepted to Pratt, his whole life before him, shiny and bright and unknown.

It never seemed to jive quite right in his head—for him, it was a couple of years; for everyone else it had been decades. His feelings were still raw and fresh. His heart still ached and yearned and wanted.

For Peggy, she’d moved on and lived her life. He knew he still had a place in her heart and he was more than glad that she’d found happiness. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Peggy.

But it still left him reeling and confused and lost.

And then he’d moved to DC full-time.

He was there often enough. He made regular trips down on the train to visit Peggy in person. Director Fury was operating largely from SHIELD headquarters at the Triskelion lately, so Steve often found himself reporting there rather than at the field office in the city.

It wasn’t a drastic change. His apartment in Brooklyn didn’t feel like his home, he supposed the apartment that Hill had helped him find in Washington didn’t have to either. There were plenty of parks and museums to keep him entertained when he wasn’t working, plenty of cafes and public greenspace to sit in and sketch when he had the energy to do it.

Everyone in the area seemed to run on military time, which was reasonable enough. It wasn’t hard to fall back into the habit of being up at dawn and he liked the way the city came to life slowly, like it was shaking off the sandman’s dust. He liked running through different parts of the city, exploring it section by section.

He’d done it sporadically in New York, most of the running paths crowded no matter the hour along with the added stress of being photographed everywhere he went—paparazzi, people with cell phones, tourists. He never thought he had a particularly recognizable face, never stood out in a crowd; but in the new century in the city that held the Cross Roads of the World, that was certainly not the case. Running in the early hours of the morning in DC was completely different. The almost empty paths around the monuments on the National Mall offered him a level of anonymity. A generic Army sweatshirt or plain workout clothes made him just another face in the small crowd. The people that recognized him left him alone for the most part, or at least approached him when he was finished with his run or waiting to cross the street at a light rather than trying to catch up to him or stopping him altogether.

The Running Man, as Steve had come to call him, was a regular fixture on Steve’s usual route. He was politely competitive, pushing himself just a little harder each time Steve passed him, a slight incline of the head and a raised eyebrow when they happened to meet at an intersection or at the end of their respective runs.

It was a few weeks before Steve worked up the nerve to actually interact with The Running Man. He closed in on him as they got near the Lincoln Memorial, following the perimeter of the Reflecting Pool. Steve’s stomach fluttered, he nearly decided to just keep going, push a little harder and just pass the guy.

“On your left!” It just came out, expelled from his chest with a breath before he could clamp his lips shut. The Running Man raised an eyebrow and inclined his head.

“Got it.” The Running Man picked up his pace very minutely. Steve left him behind, finishing his route and heading for the train.

The following morning he did it again. Again the man responded.

It went on for a couple of weeks. The Running Man’s collection of sweatshirts with service insignia came more into focus. Coast Guard, Air Force, Army, Navy, one with _Quantico_ emblazoned across his chest in bold yellow letters. It served as a point of frustration for Steve, leaving him unable to pin down what branch he served in, if he served at all or they were simply sweatshirts with no further meaning. It wasn’t as if there weren’t dozens of gift shops dotted throughout the city that sold similar gear. It wasn’t as if most of the city didn’t have some kind of service connection.

Finally, one day, The Running Man responded with more than just an incline of the head and some sort verbal confirmation.

“Don’t say it!” He pushed himself harder. “ _Don’t_ you say it!”

“On your left!”

Steve smiled inwardly as The Running Man pushed harder.

“ _C’mon!_ ”

Steve’s stomach lurched. He’d offended The Running Man. Had he been offending him this entire time and just not been conscious of it? He finished his route, just another lap would put him up the final mile that he’d planned to add that week. He came to a grassy area to rest, jogging slowly and working down to a walk. The Running Man was under a tree, looking like he was going to be sick.

“Need a medic?” He kept his tone light though he was genuinely concerned. He’d gone too far, taken too much advantage of the man’s seemingly amiable nature and the friendly competition.

He laughed. That was a good sign. It had to be. “I need a new set’a lungs! Dude, you just ran like thirteen miles in thirty minutes.” Steve put his hands on his hips and dropped his shoulders back, preening in an exaggerated manner, trying to keep the line of humor alive.

“Guess I got a late start.”

The Running Man gave him an exasperated look. “Really? You should be _ashamed_ ’a yourself. Go take anoth’ah lap.” He looked away for a second, still breathing hard, and looked back at Steve. “Did you just take it? I _assume_ you just took it.”

Steve thought the best way to go would be to just dive in head first. He’d never been particularly good at the whole social thing, but he’d never felt this utterly awkward, either.

It was hard to drop his guard for a friendly interaction when he’d gotten used to people treating him like an animal in some kind of open-air zoo.

He took a breath, what should he say? Common ground, that would be a good place to start. “What unit you with?” If it was just a sweatshirt collection, The Running Man would correct him. Steve would apologize. Maye he’d even come up with something else to say.

“Fifty-eighth, Para-rescue. But, now I’m workin’ down at the VA.” He waved his hand for assistance. “Sam Wilson.”

_Sam Wilson_.

It rang clear with the tones of old family lines, history, and tradition. Was it _Samuel_? Was it _Samson_? How far back did he have to go to meet the _Son of William_? Were others? Was he a junior or a third or a seventh?

So many of the people he met in DC were the latest in generations of service men and women. Was he? Did he join up to pay for school? Why had he left?

Why did he run alone?

What did he do at the VA? Was that his day job?

What did he do for fun?

Steve’s mind ran a mile a minute, outpacing his legs. He fought to keep his mouth from running off in conjunction with it.

He took Sam’s hand, grasping it firmly. It was warm and soft and his fingers were calloused—and kind of sweaty but that was completely beside the point—and the grip was strong and sure.

“Steve Rogers.”

Sam groaned as he stood, hunched over. “I kinda put that t’gether.”

He winced, scrutinizing Steve for a second or two. Here it came. The whole interaction was going to fall apart. Steve was either going to get chewed out for not using his celebrity to better the plight of his fellow man in a diligent enough fashion or he was going to get asked for a selfie. It usually went one way or the other. He steeled himself for it, ready with stock answers and hoping he wasn’t too flushed from his run or the blush that he felt spreading up the back of his neck if it was the photo Sam wanted. It was his own damned fault for trying to reach out. When would he learn?

Sam straightened up, his stance still casual. “Must’a freaked you out comin’ home after the whole defrostin’ thing.”

Steve sighed, unsure for a moment how to answer.

He was going to try his luck.

“Takes some gettin’ used to.” He could feel himself dropping the stage voice, the clipped Brooklyn accent sneaking into his words, as he forced himself to be comfortable and casual. Sam didn’t reach for a phone. He didn’t take on the guarded stance of someone about to start a debate. Steve decided to cut his losses, quit while he was ahead. Maybe if he left now, before things started to get awkward, he could still run the same route, still see Sam each morning and pretend he was forging some kind of human connection.

He wouldn’t have to lie to his headshrinker or to Tasha or Maria about having actually tried to speak to someone today. If he pretended hard enough, it would feel like he wasn’t lying after that either. _Yeah, we run together now, it’s a thing._ He wouldn’t leave them room to ask too many questions and let the mirage fall apart.

Steve started to walk away, turning to cross the street and head in the direction of the Metro station. He didn’t have anything scheduled for the day. Maybe he’d just ride the train for a few hours, people-watch until lunch, head home.

“It’s your bed, right?”

Steve stopped dead in his tracks, Sam’s words pinging around in his chest, hitting all the right places.

“What’s that?”

“Your bed. It’s too soft.”

The next day, Steve asked Sam if he wanted to meet up later on. He used the excuse that work kept in from doing much, that he still felt like the new kid in town, wanted to see what the best place to eat was. Sam grinned, the brightness of the expression rivaling the brilliant, spring sun overhead, and said he’d love to. He wasn’t free until the weekend.

Halfway through dinner, Steve was pressing the soft end of a split open French fry into the granules of salt and browned garlic on the edge of his plate. He popped the fry into his mouth, nodding along with what Sam was saying. They’d been discussing music. Steve liked the way it had changed, the way newer artists were trying to recreate older sounds. It was interesting. Everything was circular. He took a sip of his beer, some seasonal thing that he wasn’t sure yet if he was actually enjoying.

“Steve, is this a date?”

He choked and sniffed back the beer that made its way up the back of his throat. The last thing he wanted was liquid pouring out of his nose.

“What?”

“Is this a date?”

Steve panicked. “No, no, of course not. Why would it be?” He cleared his throat and shoved another fry into his mouth.

Sam raised a brow, disappointment flashed across his features so quickly Steve wasn’t sure if he’d actually seen it. “Oh.”

“Why? Did… did I give you that impression?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe? You flirt. A lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“You’re sure this isn’t a date?”

Steve swallowed hard. “Do… do you want it to be?” Sam’s eyes flicked away and he took a long drink from his own pint glass. “I—I—I’d… I wouldn’t mind. You know, if… if it was. It could be a date.”

Sam smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pratt Institute is where I imagine Steve could have gone for art school. It's located in Brooklyn and was founded in 1887.


	2. Steve/Now

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Steve couldn’t process it. His stomach flipped over, he swallowed down the breakfast that raced up the back of his throat. His brain was running a mile a minute, outpacing anything his body could do in that moment. He was stuck, frozen on the spot.

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

He was Bucky.

He was Bucky and he didn’t know it.

Bucky was fighting for the wrong side.

Bucky was _alive_.

How the fuck was Bucky alive?

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

Suddenly Steve was on his knees. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten there. His body was responding to orders that only his primitive mind was grasping. He felt like he was glitching, shorting out. Was this the dissociation that his shrink was so concerned about? He held in a laugh, wondering briefly if the men that were surrounding him would mind dropping him off at the Triskelion, maybe taking him up to the shrink’s office on the sixth floor.

Steve’s hands went to the back of his head, a gesture of surrender. A set of cuffs went around his wrists in the same motion that a strong hand gripped his hair and wrenched his head back. His eyes struggled to focus on the piercing blue color of the sky overhead. How dare it be so beautiful? His scalp burned. He registered in some vague way that the voice at his ear was familiar. The breath on the side of his face was hot and moist, spittle landing on his skin.

“You’re going to come quietly.”

Steve let himself be hoisted off the ground.

“And if you don’t keep being quiet, your friends are fucking dead.”

Steve let himself be led, prodded hard in the back with the muzzle of the gun in his captor’s hands. His feet dragged, feeling like he was moving through thick molasses.

“You don’t want that. Comes to that, you’ll have to scrub the grey-matter off the pavement yourself. A little community service.”

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

Steve stumbled, his face hitting the floor in the back of the van they were shoving him into hard. His mouth filled with the bitter taste of blood, his teeth cutting into the inside of his cheek.

“Get the fuck up.” Steve crawled forward on his knees, trying to hoist himself up with his hands still bound behind his back. “Get on the bench.” Steve grunted, pressing down on the edge of the seat with his shoulder and throwing his body onto it. “Lean forward.” He didn’t need to be told twice. All he really wanted to do was to put his head between his knees and try not to vomit.

The magnetic cuffs released, his hands freed, separated at least. “Try anything, I dare you. Red dies first. She’s already down, not really worth it to prolong the whole thing. Wouldn’t be very entertaining for anyone.”

A metal device of some kind locked around Steve’s forearms, forcing him to hold his arms like he was in a straightjacket. It snapped in place, the magnetized cuffs fitting into it perfectly, adding constriction to the entire set up. His feet were secured in a similar manner, knees bent too far to stand comfortably if he tried.

Tasha stumbled and sat hard on the bench opposite. Sam followed. Even cuffed, he used what little leverage he had to keep Natasha upright. She leaned heavily against him, her face pale, blood oozing over her jacket from the gunshot wound in her shoulder. Two people dressed head-to-toe in black with shiny-visored helmets got into the truck. The one nearest Steve kicked him hard in the shin. He didn’t have the energy to respond. The two settled themselves as the doors closed and locked. The other slapped the wall, signaling to the driver that they were ready to move.

Someone was calling Steve’s name. The soft tone was familiar. It wrapped around his heart gently, started to pull him back into his body.

“Hey, Sunshine.” Steve looked up. Natasha didn’t call him that. Why would she do that? She smiled weakly, just the corners of her mouth curling up. “Hey, there you are.” The words were coming out of her mouth, but they didn’t belong to her.

Steve looked to Sam. He shook his head minutely, eyes sliding toward Natasha. Steve ran his tongue over his lips, not sure what to say, how to respond, what game Natasha was playing when clearly this was the end.

“The Winter Soldier. It’s Bucky.”

“Your Bucky?” Sam’s brows came together, confused and concerned.

Steve held back the laughter that was threatening to spill from his lips at the absurdity of the entire situation. “He looked right at me.” He sniffed. “Looked right at me and didn’t even know me. Didn’t know himself.”

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

“Steve, we need to get out of here. Nat’s lost a lot of blood.”

Natasha made an incredulous sound, “It’s just a flesh wound.”

Sam readjusted his position as Natasha started to slip, holding her up. “Yeah, well, this ain’t _Monty Python_.” He swung his leg over, ready to cover Natasha when the Hydra agent closest to him attacked their partner. A quick slam and the agent was out cold, slumped over with his helmet making a racket against the wall of the van.

Maria shook her hair out when she got her helmet off. “ _God_ that thing was squeezing my brain.”

Steve did laugh then. The sound was shrill and high and echoed through the van. He wasn’t entirely sure he was going to be able to stop when it started.

“Steve.”

He gasped and choked. Sam’s hands were free and they were on his face. Maria was murmuring something to Natasha, her hand pressing into Natasha’s shoulder, putting pressure on that didn’t actually seem like it would be useful for anything at this point.

“Steve.”

Sam’s face filled his field of vision, yanking him back into his body and into reality.

“Hey, hey, we’re gonna get out of here, okay?” Steve nodded. Sam and Natasha and Maria could get out, get away, be safe. “We just gotta figure out how to get this crap off of you, okay?”

Maria and Sam traded places. Sam tended to Tash, making sarcastic jokes and keeping her attention on him. Steve could feel it when the magnetic cuffs released. The pressure on his arms lessened. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to work the feeling back into his fingers. His nails had turned blue. Maria knelt down and worked to release his legs.

Freed, he waited for instruction. He could follow instruction but he wasn’t sure that he could come up with any of his own.

Thank God for Maria.

Maria who kept her cool and saw the big picture when everyone else was probably panicking. When _he_ was panicking and threatening to float up and out of his body.

Maria had some kind of laser pointer. She aimed the beam at the floor. The metal and plastic bubbled and burned, an acrid stench filling the air as she cut a neat hole out, just big enough to fit Steve’s shoulders though.

“We’re going to have to wait for them to slow down or stop, Natasha isn’t in any condition to dive out of a moving vehicle.”

“I can do it.”

“Natasha—“ Sam was pressing the heel of his palm into her shoulder.

“Widow, we are _waiting._ ” Natasha closed her eyes and sighed, acquiescing to Maria’s clear order. “Steve, help me with this.” Maria slammed her heel down into the cut out, making the opposite edge pop up. Steve jammed his fingers down around it, gripping the piece while Maria finished making the cut. They pulled it up inside the van so the sound of it hitting the pavement didn’t alert their driver and the cutout itself didn’t get noticed or cause an accident that would telegraph what they were doing in the back of the van.

A voice crackled over the walkie-talkie of the agent Maria had knocked out. Almost immediately the van lurched to a stop, nearly sending Steve head-first through the hole in the floor. The doors flew open.

Rumlow had a furiously cool look on his face as he thrust his arm forward, his stun baton jamming into Sam’s side, the current running through both he and Natasha.

“I told you not to try anything you fucking asshole.”


	3. Steve/Then

They’d been on a couple dates, all very innocuous.

The movies— _300: Rise of an Empire_ , it sucked.

The Smithsonian Art Museum— _The Sara Roby Collection_ , Steve thought a lot of the pieces looked like illustrations for children’s books, he liked it, the content was interesting.

Dinner—a few times, always pleasant; they went back and forth between comfortable near-silence and animated conversation.

They hadn’t made a move toward anything romantic quite yet. Unless Steve counted the fact that Sam had let him put his arm over the back of Sam’s seat, his hand on Sam’s shoulder, during the movie. Or Sam’s easy body language when they walked around the museum and the way he rested his hand on Steve’s waist.

Steve absolutely counted it.

Steve kept his eyes on the road as Sam navigated through the quiet residential area just outside of the city-proper. “You gotta use the bathroom?”

“What? No. Why?”

“You’re shakin’ the whole damn car.” Sam laughed and glanced at Steve quickly before looking back at the road and easing into his turn.

Steve was confused for a moment. He looked down at his lap, finally realizing he’d been jiggling his leg since they’d reached Sam’s general neighborhood. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and pressed his heel firmly to the floor.

They pulled into Sam’s driveway and Steve swallowed hard. He felt silly at how nervous he was, but being invited to Sam’s house felt like a huge step. They ran together in a public space. They usually met wherever they’d planned to go or at some point in between.

Sam’s house was well kept and spacious looking considering it housed one person. He wondered if at some point there had been someone else living there. Roommate? Sibling? Parent?

Lover?

Sam looked over his shoulder and smiled as he unlocked the front door. He stepped inside, holding the door open and his arm out in invitation. Steve stood awkwardly near the door, running his fingers though his hair. “This is… Um… Your place, it’s—“

“Fabulous?”

Steve laughed, “Yeah. It’s really nice.”

“And you’ve only seen the front door. Wait until y’see the rest of it.” He raised a brow and slipped his jacket off of his shoulders. “Shoes, please.”

Steve hung his jacket on the hook beside Sam’s. “Yes, sir.” He toed off his shoes, silently happy that he’d worn new socks.

They were blue with yellow dots.

He’d agonized over what pair to buy.

_Fun socks, Rogers. You need a pair of fun socks. Blue, white, black, grey. Your wardrobe is downright depressing._ Natasha folded her arms and frowned at him while he took clothes out of the small washer in his apartment and loaded them into a basket to bring downstairs to the dryer. She followed him, her steps light and quick to keep up with his longer strides. _You’ve got red underwear, I’ve seen it. What’s stopping you from getting a pair of fun socks?_ Steve had blanched and shoved everything in the drier all at once. The underwear in question had come in a package with a few others. He’d been mildly amused that the company had chosen to package red, white, and blue pairs together. He’d been smug when he hit the “submit order” button on the computer and had laughed out loud when they’d shown up in the mail. They were far more _petite_ than anything he’d ever worn before. But they were soft and comfortable and he liked them. He told Natasha to leave his underwear out of it. It wasn’t his fault she made it a habit of checking out his backside. She laughed and insisted the waistband had been visible when he bent over. That still meant she was looking.

He’d been torn between a pair that was purple with little multicolored arrows all over them and the pair he’d settled on.

Yellow dots would have to be adventurous enough. He texted a picture to Natasha and had gotten a little picture of a thumbs-up back.

Steve followed Sam through to the living room. “Make yourself at home.” He continued to speak as he moved past Steve and into the kitchen. “Lemonade okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Steve sat on the couch, dragging his feet through the plush area rug in front of it.

Sam’s décor was about as colorful as Steve’s wardrobe. Greys and blues and creams with splashes of vibrant color in seemingly random spots that drew his eye. There was some art on the walls, black and white photographs, abstract streaks of navy-colored paint. Everything seemed carefully curated.

Sam sat down heavily beside him after he’d set down their glasses on a couple of coasters on the coffee table. “Nice socks.”

Steve blushed. “Thanks.”

Sam reached out and picked up his glass. He took a long sip. The clock on the wall ticked out seconds. “So.”

“So.”

“Did you have a good time?” Steve nodded. They’d been to a place called the _Bohemian Caverns_. It was a jazz club that was older than him, which was saying something. The music had been smooth and brassy and paired well with the lobster-mac-and-cheese and even better with the easy company and the warm hand on his thigh. “Steve?”

“Sam?”

“I think I wanna kiss you.”

Steve leaned closer, shifting on the couch. “I think I want you to.”

Sam’s mouth tasted like the sweet-tart lemonade he’d sipped and the nutty, roasted garlic from their meal. His lips were soft and textured, teeth smooth and hard. His breath was warm and humid against Steve’s skin.

Steve’s heart thundered in his chest. His face grew warm, the tips of his ears felt like they were on fire—and he knew he’d gone bright red. His hands shook and got sweaty; he wiped them as discretely as he could on his pants before letting them fall on Sam’s hips.

Sam leaned back, Steve responded by following him with his lips, unwilling to break the contact.

His chest felt full and heavy in the best of ways under Sam’s hands

Sam pulled back again, his bottom lip caught between Steve’s. “Hey,” he moved his head to the side, severing their connection.

A nervous fizzle settled in the base of Steve’s skull. “I-I-I’m sorry, I—did I do something wrong?”

Sam laughed and clasped his hands behind Steve’s neck. “Not at all, I just don’t have super-lungs like you, Sunshine.”

“I’m sorry, I thought—Sunshine?”

They spent the evening necking like a couple of teenagers, largely ignoring the movie that played when Sam turned the television on in want of background noise. Steve learned quickly that Sam liked it when Steve used his teeth—just a little—and licking up under his top lip made him groan and squirm.

Steve settled into Sam’s curves, their legs and arms fitting together easily when they wound up far more horizontal than they’d started.

“Steve.”

Sam’s voice was whisper soft. Steve pressed his lips to the hollow below his ear, above his jaw.

“Steve.”

Sam’s skin was smooth and warm and buttery-soft under Steve’s fingertips when he slipped them just under the hem of Sam’s shirt.

“Steve, stop.” He pushed Steve’s hand away, gently. “I think we need to slow down.” He replaced Steve’s hand on his stomach, over the smooth weave of his button-down.

“I’m sorry.” Steve traced the edge of the button nearest his fingers. “I got carried away.”

“We both did.” He turned his head to clear his throat. He shifted his hips, his eyes falling closed for a second before he looked back up at Steve and kissed him again softly.

“I think I better go.” Steve slowly disengaged his arms and legs, reluctant to do so.

“If you, ah, if you gimmie a minute, I’ll give you a ride.”

Steve’s face flushed with heat, “No, that’s okay. Metro isn’t too far away.”

“Lemmie drive you to the station, at least. It’s late. Can’t let you walk the mean streets of DC all alone.”

Steve laughed and agreed to the ride. He rung his hands, hesitating to get out of the car when they reached the Metro station. “I, um… I had a real good time t’night, Sam.”

“I’m glad y’did.” He smiled, almost serene. “I did too.”

“I have to report fer duty t’marrah, but… text me?”

“Of course.” Sam leaned over and kissed him once, lingering and sweet. “Now go before y’miss the last train.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The club Sam and Steve go to is located on Eleventh Street in Washington DC.


	4. Natasha/Then

“When are you going to actually move into this place, Steve?”

He shrugged and collected their take-out containers off of the coffee table. The record player popped and whirred as the needle moved off of the last of the grooves. “I’m not here often enough. It’s just a place to sleep.”

“But it could be a place to _live_ , Steve.”

He moved back into the living room and flipped the record. The music didn’t swell, it plucked itself out bright and gay. Natasha’s mind jumped into the way her legs would sweep across the floor, the speed she would need to turn on her toes to keep time with the orchestra. It was a tango, but it could be done. She’d have to write down the name of the piece. It could be a good workout.

_Daah daah dah da d-d-d-da daah daah dah da d-d-d-da…_

“When are _you_ going to move into _your_ place?”

“That’s different. I’m only here part time. I have my place. A place and a dumb cat that doesn’t know any better than to come around and beg.”

She wondered if anyone was feeding Liho. Barton probably would. The cat might not appreciate it if he brought Lucky around, though. She’d have to call him later. If he was caught up with business in Bed-Stuy he might not remember to head across the river to her apartment in the East Village.

Natasha had been staying on and off at a SHIELD apartment near the Triskelion. Partly, it was because she reported directly to Fury. Partly, it was because Strike Team Delta was taking a break. Barton needed to figure his life out, _was_ figuring his life out. Dealing with the world after having been used as a puppet by a god with ill-intent wasn’t easy. In the interim, Natasha had been tasked with attempting to work with Steve, see how he could do as an _agent_ rather than a _soldier_.

So far, so good.

Housekeeping, mostly, but still important missions nonetheless.

Natasha liked Steve. He gave his trust easily but wasn’t blinded by it. He could take a joke and give the same just as well. He was easy to work with in the field and pleasant to be around off of it.

She wasn’t ready to label him _friend_ , but she was getting there.

She was glad to see he was making connections. There was that guy he ran with every morning, he seemed genuine. She wasn’t sure about anyone else, but he wasn’t exactly the shuttered misanthrope that she’d first met. Or rather, that he’d become after the Battle of New York was well and over, when there was nothing more to fight for and he was floating with no direction.

Natasha knew the feeling.

“So what’s the story with your neighbor? She’s cute.” Steve shook his head and huffed out an amused sound. He was puttering back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, cleaning up and then reappearing—without having responded—with two bowls of ice cream.

Neapolitan. _Ick._

She’d eat it anyway. Finish off the strawberry and chocolate quickly while the vanilla softened to _just_ the right consistency. It was only polite.

Natasha looked at Steve expectantly as he settled on the opposite end of the couch, the leather squeaking as he shifted and drew his legs up to cross.

“What?”

“Your neighbor. She the reason you won’t take any of my suggestions? Have you made a move?”

“No.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes and swallowed a hunk of strawberry ice cream down, trying to let it touch her tongue as little as possible. There was something going on. Or someone. There could be someone.

“So what’s her story?”

“Kate?” Steve shrugged and sucked on his spoon for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. “I actually don’t know much about her. Believe it or not, I _did_ ask her out. I’m not that helpless. Her work schedule is a little crazy, though. It just never happened.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a nurse? I thought most nurses just worked in one department, but she seems to rotate around a lot. Evidently—“ Steve’s cell blasted out some particularly brassy sounding notes. His cheeks turned pink for a second and he fished the device from his pocket and sent the call to voicemail. His lips curled into a smile that Natasha was sure he wasn’t aware of as he thumbed at the touch screen, presumably answering the ignored call with a text. “Evidently she doesn’t have the same schedule every week either. Sometimes it’s seven to eleven, sometimes it’s eleven to seven.” He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Wasn’t meant to be.” He glanced down at his phone again, firing off another message before putting it out of the way on the coffee table, face down.

“Who’s that?”

“My… my friend.”

“So that’s how it is? We’re keeping secrets now?” Steve gave her an incredulous look. “Alright, you’re entitled to have them, I suppose. Must be an interesting person if they get a Marvin Gaye ringtone.”

“Hey, you could have a cool ringtone too but you vetoed my choice.”

“Could you get any more obvious? Besides I can’t stand what’s-her-face.”

“Igloo?”

Natasha snorted, “Yes, Igloo. _Black Widow_ my ass.”

Steve groaned and stretched hours later as the credits rolled on his laptop screen. He’d discovered the fine art of binge-watching between missions and had been dedicating his free-time to _Orphan Black_. Natasha had a nagging feeling that he was attracted to the Clone Club because he saw some kind of kinship with them—science projects used for someone else’s benefit, manipulated.

It made her sad.

Steve stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes. “Bed time for the old man?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” He scrubbed his fingers against his scalp, ruffling his hair. “I am kinda tired though. You want a ride home?”

“Nah, I can manage. I’ve got a few errands I wanna run before I go home anyway.” She stood and stretched, working the kinks out of her limbs from sitting in one position for too long. She moved around the back of the couch, pecking a kiss against the top of Steve’s head as she went.

“Night, Tash.”

“You too.” She grabbed her jacket from the peg on the wall beside the door and closed it quietly behind her.

Natasha took out her phone and shot off a text of her own while she stood out in the hall. The door across from Steve’s opened silently on well-greased hinges. The blonde woman who lived in the apartment next door poked her head out, peeking around the edge of the door with the chain still in place. She raised a perfectly, shaped brow and closed the door, opening it again when the chain was off.

“Kate.”

The woman stepped back to allow Natasha inside.

“You’re going to blow my cover.”

“I haven’t seen you in eight months.”

Natasha embraced the woman, squeezing her tightly and peppering her cheeks with loud kisses.

“ _Christ_ , Natasha, you’re worse than Aunt Peggy.”

They settled in the living room, a glass of wine for each of them after Natasha made assurances that Steve was in for the night.

“He’s probably already in bed, to be honest.”

“Uh-uh, water’s running.” The woman pointed at the air, listening. Sure enough, she was right. “Shower, nightly email-check, prayers, then bed.”

“He’s pretty predictable, isn’t he?” She shrugged and sipped her wine.

“I’d rather have predictable-Steve, to be honest. Easier to keep track of him, makes my job easy. Lately, not so predictable.”

“Oh? Is the Captain proving troublesome, Agent Thirteen?” Natasha put her glass down and pulled her feet up under her. “C’mon, Sharon. He’s not giving me anything. I can’t evaluate something I don’t have any information on. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really. He’s been a lot happier, lately. Even his body language is different. I think he might be seeing someone, actually.”

“Marvin Gaye?”

“Mhm. Hasn’t brought anyone around here, but he has been going out more often. Nine times out of ten he’s on the phone when he’s walking up the stairs. It’s kind of cute.”

Natasha nodded. “That’s good.” They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the first round of late-night shows playing quietly on the television. “How’s Director Carter?”

“Aunt Peg, ah…” Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose and finished her wine. “More bad days than good, lately. The good are still really good, but the bad… the bad are…” Sharon’s eyes filled with tears. “Sometimes I want to smack him, you know? She gets so upset, so confused.”

Natasha leaned over and pulled Sharon into a hug, cooing softly and rubbing circles over her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's record is [Blue Tango by Leroy Anderson, backed by the Pop Concert Orchestra.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnHLKM8hQR8)
> 
> Liho and Natasha's apartment come from the Edmondson/Noto Black Widow. Lucky and Clint's Bed-Stuy connection are from the Fraction/Aja Hawkeye.
> 
> Sam's ringtone is [Life is a Gamble, from the Trouble Man soundtrack by Marvin Gaye.](https://youtu.be/Pu8pLO8IynU) Natasha didn't like Steve's choice of Iggy Azalea for her own tone.


	5. Steve/Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY.

Rumlow hauled Maria out of the back of the van with a fistful of hair. She grunted and struggled to stay on her feet but didn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing or seeing her discomfort in any more dramatic fashion. The rest of STRIKE was quick to disarm her, pulling the sidearm at her hip off of her, but they seemed not to notice the laser still clutched in her hand. She twisted her body around, down on one knee in front of Rumlow.

Steve hesitated to move, several guns pointed in his direction. He thought if he tried to help it would wind up with all of them dead much quicker than any of them would like.

Maria jammed the end of the laser up into the fleshy park of the underside of Rumlow’s jaw. He gripped her hair tighter and pressed the muzzle of his cocked pistol to her temple.

“You think you’re faster than me, Hill? Will you take that chance? Even if we’re both dead, my friends here’ll turn Cap and his buddies into Swiss cheese.” Maria’s nostrils flared, she jammed the end of her tool-turned-weapon harder into his skin. A fat drop of blood rolled down over her fingers and splattered on her forehead. “Go ahead.”

Maria’s eyes slid to Steve and Sam where they were bodily covering Natasha in the back of the van. Sam was ashen, upright it seemed only by sheer force of will. They both shook their heads minutely. She dropped the laser.

“Good girl.” Rumlow shoved her down and patted her cheek roughly while Rollins slapped a set of magnetic cuffs on her.

Did they have a fucking endless supply of those things? Three other agents had sets fastened at their hips opposite their sidearms.

Rumlow put his boot in the middle of Hill’s back and pressed her toward the pavement. “Stay down, bitch.” He laughed, harsh and unfeeling. “Feels good to give _you_ the orders for a change, _Commander Hill_.”

Rollins turned toward Sam, “You, out, now.”

Sam looked to Steve, trying to communicate with the intensity of his glare. He knew what Sam was getting at. Cooperate.

Cooperate and live.

Live and figure out how to get out of this mess.

Sam wasn’t moving fast enough for Rollins’ liking. It earned him the end of the stun baton Rumlow had passed off to him to the face, a hard _thwack_ that Steve was sure had enough force to break bone. Sam clenched his teeth and allowed himself to be removed from the van and put down on the ground beside Hill. Compliantly, he didn’t struggle when they fastened a set of cuffs on him as well.

“You guys are lucky, you know? We can walk from here. You can take in the scenery for a few minutes before we put you in the ground.” Rumlow carried on in a chit-chat tone while Natasha’s mostly limp body was manhandled. “Had to call ahead when we realized Hill came for the party, get another hole dug real quick.” Steve was still crouched in the back of the van. It was a tactical advantage, he realized, being just a few feet higher. Rumlow reached out, caressing Steve’s cheek almost lovingly. “You’re getting’ a nice box, Cap. Real nice. Watched them put it together myself. Snug fit for those big manly shoulders you got.”

Steve watched over Rumlow’s shoulder. Maria and Sam were being dragged up onto their feet, prodded forward with muzzles and shoves. Steve scanned what little of their surroundings he could see from his vantage point. They were near the Potomac. They area was grassy, lightly wooded. It would be hard, but if they could get away they might have enough cover to escape. Rollins hoisted Natasha up into a fireman's carry.

“I think she’s gone, Brock—or close enough to it.”

“Fine, won’t waste a bullet then.”

Steve launched himself at Rumlow, knocking him to the ground and rolling with him. He got in a good few hits, bloodying his former teammate’s nose and splitting his lip before he felt the end of a baton in both sides. Without the protective layers of his suit, he felt the full force of the shocks they administered. His body convulsed and tightened. He gritted his teeth and glared down at Rumlow, his fingers grasping at unforgiving pavement. Warm blood rolled down the inside of his nose, cooling quickly, and dropped down on the front of Rumlow’s tactical vest.

Rumlow smiled, Cheshire, terrifying with his gory countenance. “Oh look, it bleeds.” He grimaced up at whomever was standing over them. “Get him off of me, you idiots.”

The current stopped. Steve’s muscles relaxed. Overcome, he fell to the pavement when someone put a boot in his side and pushed.

Steve struggled to catch his breath, his vision blurry and his head reeling.

“Get the fuck up.”

Cuffs clicked into place around his wrists. Strong hands gripped his jacket and yanked him up onto useless feet. He partly walked, partly let himself be dragged behind Sam and Maria toward the river bank.

“On your knees.” Rollins shoved him down in the mud. It was cold. It sucked at his shins, threatening to pull him down into the earth. Sam and Maria were still being led. Maria stared defiantly forward. Steve knew her gears were turning, running through possibilities. Sam spared a glance over his shoulder toward Steve. His jaw was clenched, the apple of his cheek swollen and purpled. Barely recognizable as mouthed words—

_Love you._

Steve offered a watery smile in return.

This was the end.

Steve realized not all of them were going to escape. He didn't want to resign himself to the fact of Natasha's death, but he could resign himself to his own. He'd die to give them a chance to get away. He only had to distract STRIKE long enough for them to run. He hoped they would take the opportunity, use it wisely instead of trying to back him up.

The Hydra agent shoved Sam forward, making him stumble, before Steve could make his lips work to reply.

He tensed, about to launch himself up and run, just barrel through those who were around him.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you.” Rumlow stepped in front of him. “You know, just to make sure…” He put his hand out and took a gun from one of the others. “Picked this up the last time I was at the Hub. Prototype, so it doesn’t work quite the way it should, but that Fitzsimmons--” he looked up at one of the others, “It that one person or two? I can never remember?” He looked back at Steve. “Fizsimmons said it wasn't ready. But it’ll still do the job, their shit always works.” He cocked the gun and pressed the muzzle of Steve’s forehead. “It’ll make sure you _can’t_ try anything fucking stupid.”

Rumlow lowered the gun to Steve’s shoulder and pulled the trigger.

Every muscle in his body went tight, his breathing became labored, his chest feeling like it was in a vice grip.

“It’s some kinda neurotoxin or somethin’. Supposed ta freeze up your body, knock you unconscious.”

Steve fell into the sticky mud, unable to hold himself upright.

“But you’re still in there, aren’t you?” He kicked Steve hard in the gut. Steve barely felt it, all sense of significant feeling gone. Rumlow lifted his walkie-talkie to his lips and put his face close to Steve’s. “Do it.”

Three gunshots, all together, exponentially louder for being at once and the echo off of the riverbank.

A voice crackled over the walkie a few breathless moments later. “Done.”

“We were gonna just kill you all anyway, you know. I hope you know, at least, I didn’t think you were that dense. But letting you all think you had the chance to get away just made the whole thing that much more entertaining.”


	6. Sam/Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...screw it.
> 
> I'm going to continue to utilize canon elements but I'm going to throw attempting to follow the established timeline out of the damned window. I think the story will flow better this way.

“Please, Sam? It’s just coffee.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“But… but weren’t _you_ the one trying to get _me_ to go out not too long ago?”

“Well, I’m… I’m seein’ someone.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Serious?”

Sam looked down at his feet for a moment, smiling in spite of himself. “Yeah, I think so.”

A young woman poked her head out of the door they were standing in front of, tentative and shaking. She gripped the molding with white-knuckled intensity. Her voice wavered when she spoke, “S-s-s—Sam? It’s almost three.” Her eyes watered, “I really need—I need—“

“It’s alright, Allie,” he turned and nodded, signaling the end of his conversation and putting the kibosh on any further talk of coffee. “C’mon, you need to go first?”

The woman burst into tears when Sam laid his hand on her shoulder, “Please.”

“No problem, Als.” He guided her into the meeting room. Taking a quick headcount, sure that all of the regulars were there, Sam closed the door softly behind them, insulating the group from the prying ears of the outside world. “Alright guys,” He strode to the front of the room and took a seat rather than standing at the lectern. “I think at least for today we can dispense with the formalities and get right in the shit, yeah?”

An hour in, it didn’t look like the group session was going to be over any time soon. Sam was exhausted. The group looked beat and on edge all at once. They’d all managed to have terrible weeks all at once. Hey were trying their best to be supportive of each other, helping one another talk through things and put them in perspective, but the emotional issues of ten people all lumped together very quickly turned from a mole-hill to a mountain.

“I think we all need a break. Coffee’s still hot, grab something to eat. Twenty minutes, okay?”

The group slowly broke up. People wandered, some with downright dazed expressions, toward the refreshment table. Others simply moved to another seat, as if putting physical distance between themselves and what they’d been discussing.

Sam stepped outside the room, his shoulders hunched and tense. Cool, springtime breeze wafted down the hall from the open door. He rubbed his face, fatigue slapping him hard.

“Hey.” The voice was soft and smooth and familiar.

Sam looked up and smiled, “Hey. How long you been here?”

“Few minutes. I was kind of listening—I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have.”

“No, that’s fine, don’t be sorry.” He moved them a few feet further down the hall. “Door wouldn’t be open if we didn’t want people to come in and out. In, more so. It’s a support group. If support can come from listening in, that’s great.”

Steve nodded and looked down at his feet. His shoulders were high and tight, like his jacket was too small for him.

“You wanna come inside? Share something?”

Panic flashed across Steve’s face, “No! No. I mean, I just—“

“It’s fine, Steve, you don’t need to. No one’s going to force you in there.” Sam shrugged, keeping his stance casual. “I do think that it would be more help than harm, though.” His eyes slid in one direction down the hall and then the other. He reached out and put his hand against Steve’s face. Steve leaned into the touch. “You got a lot goin’ on in there.”

Steve chewed his lip and nodded. “That’s… it’s not… I came to ask if you wanted to have dinner tonight.”

Sam smiled, “You could have just texted me, Sunshine.”

“Maybe I was in the neighborhood and wanted to see where you worked.”

He chuckled, “Alright then. Do you mind if we just head back to my place and order something? I’m done for the day when this session is over. Just gotta fill out some paperwork before I can go. You can hang around if you want. We can head out together.”

Steve smiled, “I’m on my bike, actually. Um, do you… do you mind if maybe I cooked for you?”

“What?”

“I sort of… it’s been a while since I had anything homemade. I kinda spent the morning trying to remember my Ma’s recipe for soda bread.”

“Sure. Do you need me to pick anything up?”

“No, I’ve got everything. I’ll just bring it over?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sam smiled wide, excited at the prospect of seeing Steve in the kitchen, doing something as mundane as cooking a meal. Sometimes everything about him seemed so completely surreal, Sam forgot he did normal things too—not just saving the world in his spare time with a team of heroes.

The prospect of someone else making a meal for him wasn’t too shabby either. A little bit more of the tension slid out of his back at the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to worry about figuring out how to feed himself when he got home.

Steve hovered near the door when Sam turned to go back inside. The group was starting to filter back toward their seats, if they were up for starting again before the twenty minute break was up then he wouldn’t object.

“You stayin’?”

“I—no. Maybe next time?” Steve squeezed one eye shut, one hand scratching the back of his head and the other jammed down into his pants pocket. “Text me when you’re heading home, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Steve showed up at his door later that evening with an insulated bag tucked under his arm. The food was still warm enough to enjoy when Steve started taking containers out and setting them down on the dining room table.

“Lamb’s okay?”

Sam raised a brow, a little surprised, “Yeah, lamb’s fine.”

“Good. Good. Um, a serving spoon, I think?” He popped the lid off of the largest container. The smells of herbs and thick gravy and hunks of browned meat filled the air. “Yeah, a spoon.”

Sam came back with shallow, wide bowls and utensils and watched as Steve spooned out a generous helping of stew and a couple of what looked like extremely dense biscuits onto each dish. They turned out to be potato cakes.

Steam rose up out of the loaf of soda bread when Steve unwrapped the dishtowel from around it and sliced through the thick crust.

Sam settled against Steve on the couch when they were finished and the dishwasher was whirring quietly in the background. He raised his arm just high enough to turn the television on and hit play when the Netflix screen loaded up. Steve had turned him on to some British show about this girl who was a twin and a clone and had stolen someone’s identity and gotten tangled up in some mess that was way bigger than she could handle on her own because of it.

He knew Steve was all caught up, but Sam had just found out that the Evil Clone’s creator-dad was still alive and he’d had to pause it before the woman with the severe haircut got to reunite with him.

They chatted in the lulls between the action. “So that was all stuff you remembered from before? Did y’always cook?” Sam’s belly was warm and full and his eyes were threatening to droop. He was too comfortable. Steve shifted slightly behind him, bending his knee to scratch at his shin before settling again with his leg stretched out across the couch.

“The bread and the potatoes, yeah.” His fingers traced up the vein on the inside of Sam’s elbow absentmindedly, Steve’s eyes still fixed on the screen even if they weren’t entirely focused. “Not the stew. I used to make th’other stuff with Ma but the stew she used to start b’fore I got home from school. Never knew what w’s in it, exactly. Found what I made on th’inner’net. Tasted pretty close, though.” He tilted his head to catch Sam’s eye. “You like it? Y’are allowed t’say _no_.”

“I loved it. I think you gotta cook for me at _least_ once a week from now on.” He loved more that Steve was so relaxed, his body soft and pliant, his speech losing it’s more formal tone and slipping into the speech of his youth. It was a transformation that Sam didn’t think many people got to see.

Sam never got to see whether or not the Soccer Mom Clone escaped from rehab or forced her husband to admit he was working for the scientists.

He was too preoccupied with Steve’s hands and lips against his neck and stomach. Sam turned himself over, covering Steve’s body with his own. Their kissing had elevated from affectionate to heated each time they got together. They were moving relatively slowly but tonight had felt different, special.

His body was humming in spite of the food-induced lethargy. Sam jerked his hips forward. Their belt buckles clacked together, catching. Sam buried his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, the skin flushed with heat against his own. Steve gasped somewhere above him, his legs tensing and shifting and widening to accommodate Sam’s frame.

Steve gripped at the couch and at Sam’s shoulders. His legs wrapped around Sam’s waist, tangled into his legs, heavy and solid. Steve made soft, high-pitched sounds and his chest and belly collapsed and swelled rapidly.

“Sam-Sam-Sam—“

Sam lifted his head, mouthing along Steve’s jaw. “Tell me what you want.”

“Stop. Please—please stop.”

Sam’s face flushed, heat flooding his cheeks. He tried to pull away, trapped by Steve’s arms and legs. “I’m sorry, I thought—If you don’t want to—“

“No, no, no I _want to_.” His breath whistled through teeth and nose. He pressed his cheek to Sam’s. “I just… I’m not in the best shape right now.”

Sam freed himself and sat up, smoothing down his shirt and swallowing hard at the sight of Steve sprawled on the couch. He looked _debauched_ and it was going directly to Sam’s groin. “What do you mean? Are you… Are you okay? Do you not—I—“ He wasn’t sure what to say. “Are you nervous?” Steve shook his head. He could feel his expression shift. “Is there something I should know?”

Steve slid back against the arm of the couch, folding his legs toward himself. “What do you mean?” Steve cocked his head, “Sam are you tryin’a ask me if I got the clap?”

“I—no! I—“ Steve broke out into laughter, his hand clutching at his stomach and his face turning pink. Sam couldn’t help but laugh along with him, both at his own flustering and Steve’s blunt question.

“No, I’m healthy as a horse, if that’s what yer askin’. And if you want specifics, STD screening is a standard part of the physicals we get at SHIELD. It’s not like they talk about it, but there’s plenty of undercover work that verges toward honeypot.”

“You go on honeypot missions? Like a Bond Girl. Captain America is really Pussy Galore on the side.”

Steve made an incredulous sound, “No, not me. But I did just have an evaluation not too long ago. They put me through the whole physical exam thing every couple of weeks since I woke up. Tryin’a figure me out I guess. I don’t mind so much. Got real used to strangers pokin’ at me when I was a kid. In and outta hospitals and clinics as often as Ma could afford it, really. And I’ve never not been safe—no rubbers no sex. I wasn’t about to pass on whatever the hell was wrong with me before Erskine and VD was a _very_ big deal during the War. Handed rubbers out like Halloween candy.” Steve looked down at his lap and his eyes widened. “And I have run completely off topic.” He blushed briefly in embarrassment.

“You’re cute when you run y’mouth, you know?” Steve laughed. “Now that we’ve totally killed the mood...”

“Can I—can I explain, though?”

“Steve, if you don’t want to get physical, that’s fine. When you’re ready, I’m ready.”

“No, it’s not that. I just… I got in from a mission early this morning, right?” Sam nodded, he’d gotten a text when Steve got home. His morning run had been too quiet. “It was rough. Bunch’a pirate types, I guess? They were scavenging off the coast of Greenland, near the spot I—near the recovery site. They’d managed to pull some old Hydra tech out of the water, stuff that had fallen off when I crashed or that got missed when the Russians and SHIELD cleaned up the site. Found a lot more on their ship—weapons, money, the nines.”

“Not that this isn’t interesting, but what does this have to do with us?” Sam smiled and reached out. “Are you just tired? Got a good meal and a big fight, now you’re ready to hit the hay?”

Steve shook his head. “Nah, I’m not tired. The guys, they were just… brutal. Haven’t taken a beatin’ like that in a long time. I wouldn’t be able to… I don’t know, perform? I’m kinda sore.”

Sam leaned in and kissed Steve softly. “No problem.”

“Could I, um, could I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Could I, maybe, stay the night?”

Sam broke into a grin, “Absolutely.”

“Do you mind if I bring my bike into the garage? It’s suppose’ta rain.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll move the car over.”

Later that night, Sam returned from brushing his teeth to find Steve already flopped onto the bed, fully clothed. “This is the most amazing mattress I have ever felt.”

Sam laughed and sat down on the edge to pull a pair of socks on. “Told you it was y’bed.” He twisted around to look at Steve. “You gonna get undressed or what?” Steve frowned and made a show of sitting up and standing. He turned his back on Sam to begin to undress. “Do you want pajamas or somethin’?”

“Not if you don’t mind me in my shorts.”

“Not at all.”

Sam slipped under the comforter and made himself comfortable, watching Steve as he shucked off his socks and slipped out of his jeans. He folded them carefully and placed them on top of the dresser. He grabbed at the hem of his shirt and started to pull it over his head, his undershirt catching as he did.

“Oh my _God_.”

Steve turned around, confused.

Was he actually unaware of the huge blooms of black and blue across his back and thighs?

“It looks worse than it is, I promise.”

“Is that why you didn’t wanna—“

Steve nodded. “I didn’t really want you to see. I guess it spread a little.” He twisted and looked down at himself.

How hard did you have to hit Captain America to leave a mark like that?

“It’ll be gone in a couple a days, week maybe.”

“How?”

“Well, with the serum I—“

“No, I mean how did that happen?” Sam touched Steve’s back softly when he sat on the bed, the ribbed fabric of his under shirt between Sam’s fingers and his skin.

“Kinda got pushed off’a the boat. Hit the water pretty hard.”

“ _Christ_. Doesn’t that hurt?”

Steve shrugged and scooched down into the pillows. “It’s uncomfortable.”

Sam settled in beside him, hesitating before turning off the light. “You sure you’re okay, Sunshine?”

Steve nodded and stole an earnest kiss before he turned away onto his side. “Night.”

“Night.”

Sam had a hard time making his mind turn off. The idea that Steve could take such a hit and just call it _uncomfortable_ was rolling around in his head along with the image of a bunch of soldiers trick-or-treating for condoms. Steve had seemed to fall off quickly, his breathing evening out and deepening. Curled close behind him, Sam dared to drape an arm around Steve’s chest. It was almost as if the beating of his heart had slowed too, like a hibernating bear.

“Steve?” He breathed in deeply, filing his chest under Sam’s hand. “You awake?” Sam pressed a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck.

“Sure.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Am I the first?”

“First what?”

“First man y’been with.”

Steve chuckled softly. “No. Can I go back t’sleep now?”

“Yeah.”

Steve turned over and wrapped himself around Sam completely unabashedly in his sleepy haze. He was out again in moments. Sam felt himself slip toward slumber, pulled down by the weight and warmth of Steve’s body.


	7. Sam/Then

Sam stretched and fisted his hands and curled his toes, joints popping and cracking. The room was chilly with the early morning air coming in the cracked open window, curtains billowing softly. Sam leaned out over the side of the bed and pressed the button to turn off the alarm before burrowing back down under the comforter. He turned, a smile on his face, expecting to find a warm body in his bed and finding none. The indent remained in the pillow, though the bedding was smoothed down flat. Sam sat up, confused, and looked around the room. Steve’s clothes were still sitting on the dresser. The room was dark except for the glow of the nightlight near the closed door.

The light from the hall creeped in around the door frame. The floor squeaked.

He’d probably just gotten up to use the bathroom. Something Sam realized he needed to do as well as consciousness full settled over him.

He eased the door open, not wanting to startle Steve if he was on the other side.

“Net! Ya ne mogu etogo sdelat’.” Steve spoke softly into his cell phone, leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs. “Tasha—no. Net. Ya skazal _net._ ”

Not wanting to appear to be eavesdropping, Sam cleared his throat as he shuffled down the hall. Steve jumped slightly, his brows coming together in a stern expression before he broke into a smile.

“Tash, I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed when Sam returned. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”

“Morning.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, sticking up in all directions. “Sorry about that. I should have gone outside.”

“Somethin’ you didn’t want me’da hear?”

“SHIELD stuff. Not important, really.”

Sam frowned. “Alright. You speak Russian?”

Steve’s cheeks went slightly pink. “A little, yeah. Picked it up during the War. Practice with Natasha when I can, usually if it’s something sensitive. She’s been teachin’ me a little more. I talk too slow, evidently.”

“Sounded like somethin’ you didn’t wanna do. There was a lotta _net_ ’s in there.”

Steve barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that... That wasn’t SHIELD stuff. That was…” Steve rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down in an exasperated manner. “That was Tasha trying to set me up on a blind date again.”

“You better not be takin’ any other dates.” Sam grinned and plopped down beside Steve, leaning in for a long, slow kiss.

“I’m not. Couldn’t. Like ya too much.”

“Why’s she tryin’a set you up.”

“Thinks I’m lonely, I guess.”

“Natasha… she’s the redhead, right?” Sam squinted, rolling through his memory, trying to picture the photos that had come out in the time following the Battle of New York. “Black Widow?”

“Yeah.”

“You said you guys were friends, right?” Steve nodded. “She doesn’t know about us?”

Steve looked away. “No. I haven’t told anyone.”

A pang of insult twisted in Sam’s gut. Maybe Steve wasn’t as serious about this thing as he was. “Why not?”

“I want somethin’ that’s just mine.” He played with the hem where a few stitches had come out on the leg of his boxer briefs, picking at the loose threat. “My whole damn life is in books and television specials and documentaries and weirdly specific college elective courses. Everyone speculates and argues and discusses everything about me. I just… I wanted something that could just _be mine_.”

Sam leaned his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I be yours?”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

Steve tilted his head, resting it against Sam’s. “You up for a run? I’m kinda leanin’ toward makin’ you stay here and sleep in. Then breakfast. Then a long, hot bath.”

“Nah. Run’s good. Can I borrow some clothes?”

“Pants are gonna be baggy, Captain Small Ass.”

“Yeah, well, shirt’s gonna be too small.” Steve pushed out his chest and flexed his arms tightly. He laughed at himself. “Which is not something I ever thought I would say.”

Sam rolled his eyes and stood, crossing the room to rifle through his dresser, “You say that as if you wear shirts that actually fit you.”

“Hey, I’m still tryin’a figure out the whole shopping in the future thing.”

“Somehow I don’t think it’s that different.”

“Most’a my clothes were altered hand-me-downs. First time I remember gettin’ a real new shirt was fer my Communion. Then, when I started at Pratt, maybe? Ma wanted me’da have a new shirt to start off my big career as a successful artist with.” Steve smiled, soft and fond and distant. Sam sat beside him again, all ears. “Next time I got new clothes was when they handed me my Army uniform.” He barked out a laugh. “Then after, you know,” he gestured at himself, “I had nothing. Just what the Army gave me, just the uniforms. I was wearin’ ‘em for days at a time, airin’ everything out best I could, washin’ everything as often as possible. Only other thing I had was the costume. Couldn’t very well go ‘round with the chorus gals between shows in a pair’a blue tights.”

“You couldn’t buy yer own stuff? After, I mean?”

“Wasn’t exactly getting’ paid for the USO gig. They considered it my patriotic duty. I was only a Private, really, officially. Had no family so they didn’t consider me fer increases’r benefits’r anything. Base pay was a whole fifty bucks a month—which, you know, was actually sort of decent. I never saw much of it, though. I guess they figured, I was getting’ room and board bein’ on the tour—sleepin’ in the bus or on the train, hotels if we were stayin’ more than one night.” Steve shrugged. “The girls treated me well. Couldn’t complain. Then, a couple months in, the costume guy—Kowalski—he noticed my drab was gettin’ kinda beat-up lookin’. He had some extra fabric from the Hitler costume, khaki stuff, and the lining fer the girl’s dresses. He made me some slacks and shirts.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope. Steve.”

Sam tuned out of the world and into the sounds of the wind in the leaves and his sneakers against the pavement. Steve was somewhere up ahead—or behind, if he’d finished his lap already. The sun was slowly rising, everything waking up slowly around him.

He liked this time of the day. Everything was still cool and still. There weren’t too many people on the paths, mostly other runners, maybe a few that were walking to work at one museum or monument or another, tour guides and curators prepping the city for the day’s visitors.

Sam slowed his pace, breathing deep, gathering up energy, wanting to be able to keep up with Steve for that final sprint toward their usual rest spot.

He used to run with Riley this way.

Not the way Steve ran, of course. Riley would keep pace with him. Side-by-side, pushing each other to their limits, an unspoken competition, tuning their bodies, becoming the most efficient machines they could be. Sometimes they’d jog together again at the end of the day. Then there would be the quiet of late night side-by-side in their bunks or in Sam’s bed when they were on leave. Quiet that lent itself to saying things that couldn’t be said out loud in the light. Things their SO’s couldn’t hear. Things that there was just no time for when their minds were occupied with flight patterns and drop points and extraction plans.

Sam clenched his jaw and sniffed hard, stopping himself from going too far.

“You ready?” Steve was a little breathless when he pulled up beside Sam. His face was lightly flushed. Sam glanced at his watch and raised a brow, wondering if Steve had somehow squeezed in another lap in the time they’d been out.

“Go for it.”

Steve picked up his pace, slow at first, giving Sam time to build momentum. They hurtled toward the end of their route with a burst of energy, slowing to a jog and then a walk near the end of the Reflecting Pool. They walked toward their spot under the trees and sat down in the grass while Sam caught his breath.

“Sam?” He nodded, not quite able to answer yet. “I wanna apologize.”

“For what? This mornin’? I told you I didn’t mind. You’ve got SHIELD business, I understand you can’t talk to me about it.”

“No, I mean, for yesterday. I was… manic. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my crap.”

“What crap?”

“I dunno. Being… being back there? At the spot where… The spot they found the Valkyrie. It was weird. And kinda scary. And I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

“Steve, you went back to the place that—for all intents and purposes—you _died_. You crashed a plane into the ocean without the thought that you were ever comin’ back from it. Then you wake up in the next century? World’s totally different? And you’re _alive_? Steve, if it hadn’t bothered you then I think I would have been worried.”

It made a little more sense. Trying to cook his mother’s food. Wanting to sleep over. The reluctance to admit that he was hurt.

“Why are you always so damn reasonable?”

“Eh, it’s my job. And I’m not always reasonable, you know that.” The week prior, a new gentleman had joined the support group. He’d been deployed in the same area Sam and Riley’s final mission had been in. Steve held him while he shook out on the back patio. They’d ordered pizza and finished a six pack between them and called it an early night. Sam collapsed into bed and was dead to the world until his alarm went off the next morning.

Steve frowned and glanced at his phone. “I gotta go.”

“Now?”

“Unfortunately.”

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, an attractive redhead behind the wheel. “Either of you know where the Smithsonian is? I’m here to pick up a fossil.”

“Very funny, Tash.”

She jerked her chin in Sam’s direction. “Hey, there.”

Sam put on his best smile and squatted to see her at eye level. “Hey.”

Sam pushed down the sudden excitement of meeting the Black Widow—an Avenger.

Not that being around Steve wasn’t exciting, but that was decidedly different.

“Nice ride.”

Steve grinned, “Can’t run everywhere.” He slipped into the passenger’s seat, practically folding himself in half to do it. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

“I’ll be waitin’. Better hope I don’t get a new runnin’ buddy while you’re gone.”

Steve laughed and rolled his eyes, waving as Natasha pulled away from the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First historical note! Feels weird not including these in every chapter. So! Base pay for a Private in the army was $50/month, which has the same buying power as a little less than $700 today. If the soldier had a family, a chunk would be sent to his wife. A certain percentage would be taken out for life insurance. He'd be left with maybe half for himself. The men were paid usually in cash and in the currency of whatever country they happened to be in. Many WWII vets report that they either never received the correct amounts or flat out saw nothing until the end of the War and then maybe not even the whole amount. During active combat, their pay would accumulate and they would (supposed to) be paid the next time the paymaster could reach them. A soldier would receive more money based on his rank and a few other factors.


	8. Steve/Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have something unpleasant for the holiday.
> 
> Orphan Black Season 2/3 spoilers?

As they dragged him through the mud on the bank of the Potomac, Steve thought he deserved it.

This final indignity before he met death.

He always thought he might meet that specter as an old friend. Someone he’d slept in the careful embrace of before running off to cheat them with life, always dancing close to entering that embrace again, letting them caress him like a gentle lover before flying off again to save their meeting for another day.

But now, as his body picked up dirt and wet and debris, as it soaked into his clothes and into his bones, he knew death wouldn’t greet him as an elusive friend.

They would greet him with disdain for allowing three who weren’t marked for it to meet them.

For failing the living who needed him.

For not doing anything to tip the balance back to where it belonged.

Steve deserved it.

They dropped him on his side, his cheek sticking in the wet earth, the scent of it filing his nose. He was just barely aware of the conversation going on above him, his eyes glued to the burlap-wrapped _something_ being heaved into the open ground several yards away.

 _No_. He thought. _You can’t do that._ His brain sifted through sizes and shapes. He wanted to scream, was filled with the when he couldn’t. _You can’t. He’s mine. He’s_ my _Sam. You can’t._ Dry dirt, exposed to the air after being dug up, rose in a cloud around the Hydra agent’s shins as he shoveled it over the body and filled in the hole.

Two other bundles still laid out, ready to be interred.

“But, Brock, our orders were to eliminate him. Do you think we should finish the job?”

“Let him suffer a little. He fucking broke my nose.”

“But—“

“He’ll run outta air before that shit wears off. It’s fine. Let ‘im think good and hard while he suffocates in the fuckin’ dark.”

“Asshole was always in the dark though, wasn’e?”

They snorted and laughed, pleased with themselves. Steve stared unseeingly toward the sky as he was grabbed at ankle and armpit and hefted up into the air.

_It’s so fucking blue._

It was a snug fit, just like Rumlow had promised. There was just barely enough room for them to straighten his legs completely as they held him sitting upright before letting him fall back into the pine box. The fresh, clean scent of wood filled his nose.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“Lid’s not gonna go on like that.”

His torso and hips jutted forward with his arms still bound behind his back.

“That looks obscene.” There was a round of laughter, some crude miming that Steve wanted nothing more than to roll his eyes at. They yanked him forward again by his collar, sitting him up to release the cuffs and adjust his arms. They eased him down this time, almost gentle.

Rumlow smirked as he re-engaged the cuffs when Steve was settled. “You can die like that.” He hocked back phlegm and spat it in Steve’s face, a mucousy, bloody mess. “Let’s go! We got shit to do and a fuckin’ timeline to keep! Get fuckin’ moving!”

Rumlow strode away.

Steve’s world went dark, reduced to the scent of pine and earth and the sound of a nail gun trapping him inside the box. He could feet it when they lifted and lowered him. He could hear the wet hunks of dirt and loose pebbles and debris as it fell down over him.

He’d let Sam and Natasha and Maria down.

He’d let _everyone_ down.

When they’d needed him most.

He’d failed them before he even knew them. Before they existed.

Taking Schmidt down meant nothing.

Dying meant nothing.

Not when Hydra was still there, working behind the scenes.

Working beside him. With him.

When he was working for them all this time.

_I never got to tell him._

Eventually, all sound grew too distant to hear. It went from being muffled to being completely absent. The cold of the close water and wet earth and unpredictable Spring wrapped round him.

It wasn’t sharp like the cold of the water and the ice.

He wasn’t feeling the burn of hunger in his stomach or the ringing in his head from the impact.

It was a gentler death than he could have hoped for.

He wanted so much to laugh when his cellphone buzzed in his pocket, completely forgotten until then. His gut hurt and twisted with the desire for it.

The melody chiming out of the device quieted, whomever was trying to reach him giving up or getting kicked to voicemail for lack of answer.

Steve imagined he could close his eyes. He imagined he could simply sleep. He’d run out of air before whatever the hell Rumlow had shot him with had the chance to wear off. It was over. He had nothing left to fight for. Sam was gone. Bucky… Bucky was out there, somewhere. But what use was it when he didn’t know who the hell he was? When he was fighting for the enemy?

Maybe it wasn’t even Bucky.

Maybe Steve had had his very own encounter with a real-life Clone Club member.

Maybe _Project Castor_ was real. Maybe there was a Hydra agent on the writing staff of his favorite show. He thought back to where he’d found Bucky. It was dark and dank and industrial but no doubt it was a lab. Bucky had admitted at least that he thought they’d done things to him aside from trying to brainwash him. They could have taken tissue, blood, hair. They could have kept it. Used it.

Steve realized he was reaching. But weaving his own narrative was a lot less difficult than admitting that he was a _complete_ failure from the very start. It was easier than thinking about the possibility that Bucky had survived falling hundreds of feet into snow and ice and rock and that he’d been taken by the enemy and kept alive and used for nefarious gain.

Phillips had been right the whole time. Steve wasn’t right, wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when his toes began to tingle. Pins and needles like a sleeping limb beginning to regain blood flow.

Steve wondered briefly if that was what suffocation was going to feel like with the neurotoxin paralyzing him-tingling all over until it just _stopped_. It had felt different, he thought, the first time. When he was running out of air in the half-submerged cockpit, trapped and cold after he’d regained consciousness after the impact. The burning in his stomach and head and chest and the white-hot numbness over every inch of his skin had eventually faded into darkness and quiet and ringing in his ears and spinning, brilliant colors on the backs of his eyelids.

Steve focused up in the darkness inside the box and tuned into the beating of his heart. He drew in what breath he could, held it, let it out. His pulse slowed to a crawl. If his heart wasn’t throbbing as quickly he didn’t need as much oxygen. The shallow breaths he was able to take weren’t as uncomfortable.

He drifted.

He tingled.

He counted heartbeats to pass the time, wondering if the average coffin really did have around two hours of breathable air inside and where the hell he’d read that.

He wished death would just come for him. Why make him wait? He could serve an eternity in Hell for letting things come to this. Why punish him now?

With nothing else to think about in the tight space, his thoughts as sluggish as his he’d forced his heartrate to be, he very slowly realized that his fingers were tingling and that his wrists ached. The cuffs felt heavy, the defined edges digging into his skin.

He was positive he’d imagined it when he was able to rock his hand, just slightly, and relieve the discomfort.

His legs felt tight, the muscles flexed and drawn like he’d been running for hours.

Steve drew in a shuddering breath that made his whole body shake and his skin flush with heat. His eyes welled with tears as he blinked rapidly, his body finally able to make its systems work and protect the delicate organs again.

 _Oh, God._ He thought, the desire to scream seizing him. But what good would that do?

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. It wasn’t as if he never got calls, but it was odd that someone would be so diligent in trying to reach him on this private number, that he’d receive calls so close together.

Steve slowly became aware of the weight of his limbs. The vice grip of seized muscles released his chest. He opened and closed his clenched jaw, tested his fingers and toes.

Rumlow had said that he’d suffocate before the neurotoxin wore off.

Maybe the prototype weapon hadn’t worked as well as he’d anticipated.

Maybe Steve’s vain attempts at easing himself toward oblivion had actually save him, bought him time to ride it out.

With his mind less clouded by paralysis and fear and anger, his thoughts sharpened.

Sam would want him to fight.

Steve bit back a sob, the image of Sam’s bright, white smile and warm brown eyes and rough hands and smooth skin clawing forward through the clouds in his head. Salty tears burned his eyes for an altogether different reason. He’d never touch Sam again, be touched by him. He’d never kiss him. Smell him. Listen to his humming in the car. Watch him twist and spin through the air with his wings spread out across the horizon, the way Steve had imagined when he watched Sam catch Sitwell, plucking him out of his freefall. Steve would never again get to move against him on the floor of a jazz club, bodies close and undulating. Move against him. With him. _Be_ with him, fitting together so easily, so good.

He’d only ever have that mouthed _Love you_. He’d never get to hear Sam say it out loud.

He’d never get to tell him he felt the same.

Steve would never have any of that again. He didn’t know if he would ever want it again. He certainly wouldn’t deserve it.

But Sam would tell him to fight. Try. Try. Try. Try. Push through it. Use it.

Steve tested his arms. It hurt, the pins and needles coming back full-force, but he could move if he tried. The cuffs banged up against the lid of the box when he lifted his hands, trying to feel for a knot in the wood—a weak spot—something, something to focus his hope on. He twisted his hands and bent his elbows as far as he could, trying to feel with his fingertips. He winced when splinters of pine caught fast in his skin, drawing his hands away fast.

Somewhere between shoulder and hip the nail gun had split the wood. He twisted and bent again, pushing on the lid. The air filled more heavily with the scent of dirt, wet dust fell onto his chest and stomach through the crack.

His first overwhelming instinct was to push up with as much force as he could and break the lid. He resisted it, realizing that that would suffocate him for sure—the weight of the wet dirt falling in on him and filling his mouth and nose. Bound as he was, he’d have no way to stop it.

He needed a way to keep his breathing as clear as it could be, something to filter the debris.

Steve grabbed at the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. Twisting his neck and arms awkwardly let him catch it between his teeth. He yanked the fabric and arched his back to let it free of his weight. He couldn’t use his hands to get it to cover his face, it was proving a physical impossibility in the tight fit Rumlow had provided him with.

Steve scrunched his shoulders forward and dug his chin down, using his teeth to pull the fabric up as efficiently as he could. He slammed his chin forward before the shit could slip down again, trapping it between his face and the lid and using the unforgiving surface to scoot the hem up and up and finally over the top of his head.

Bits of wet dirt falling through the split in the wood and hitting his bare belly startled him.

Steve pushed up with his fingers and met resistance. His fingers would break before he could get the lid to break and he couldn’t get his arms down far enough on either side of his body to press his whole palms up. He took a steadying breath, trying to clear his head. He shook his hands out, the cuffs clacking loudly against the lid in the tight space.

That could work.

Steve alternated between pressing as hard as he reasonably could with his fingers and driving the cuffs up into the lid. More dirt fell from above in puffs and chunks as the split widened and closed over and over again, the wood flexing under the force.

Dirt began to pour into the box in earnest. He couldn’t let it fill the box in over him, that would completely undermine his efforts.

He stopped trying to break the lid for a moment and just pushed up, letting the dirt come in while he twisted and shifted and tried to moved It under himself.

A few more rounds of pushing and hitting and waiting and twisting produced the definite sound of the wood splintering and breaking.

Steve tensed and panicked when the full weight of the broken lid and the dirt above him fell.

 _Fight_.

He’d fight and he’d get out and somehow, _somehow_ , he’d atone for all of his failures.

His consciousness faded into the fevered motions of clawing at the earth above him, short and stunted as they were. He worked quickly, diligently, moving earth down and his body up, trying to raise his torso.

His hands trembled when he felt cool air above him.

He clawed harder, using his shoulders to move the dirt around him, hooking his fingers into the mud. The top of his head broke the surface. The dirt loose around his buried body, he worked to get his feet under himself and push up with all of his remaining strength on what he’d managed to get under him.

Steve sucked in air through the wet, dirty fabric of his shirt.

He stilled, breath coming in quick bursts, body shaking and convulsing with relief and fear all at once.

Regaining some semblance of focus, he whipped his head to the side sharply and jerked it back to make the sodden shirt slip away from his face. Steve gritted his teeth, panting, and dug his fingers in. He jammed his elbows down and pushed, trying to drag his body upward, trying to find new footing under the earth.

He paused, setting his hands and elbows in farther along, jerking his torso to the side, trying to widen the hole he was clawing his way out of.

Steve took a deep breath and stretched his arms forward, groping at mud and rock. His fingers found purchase, by some act of God, on what felt like a root. He swiped at the dirt, uncovering it, long since separated from its tree but deep enough to grab onto without just ripping it out of the ground. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled.

He let out the breath he’d been holding in a long scream that bounced off the banks and the trees and hit him back tenfold. He sucked in another breath and pulled again, shouting again. Cool air made the skin of his back prickle. He pulled again, using the root as an anchor while he worked his legs free.

Steve flopped onto his back, glaring at the impossibly blue sky and the bright sun that had moved directly overhead. He opened his mouth and yelled again, angry that the day refused to conform itself to the disgusting events of the day.

Losing momentum, his shouting softened into broken sobs wrenching themselves from his throat.

He struggled onto his side and then sat up, feet splayed in front of himself.

He refused to look at the mounds of dirt beside him. Looking would make it all real and final.

His phone pulsed twice in his pocket, alerting him to a voicemail. He let out a laugh, a manic giggle, and fished the device awkwardly from his pocket. It took several tries with his grimy, bloodied hands to get the touchscreen to respond.

_“Steve! Steve pick up the fuckin’ phone, Steve. What’s happening? CNN says you’re a wanted fugitive. Tash isn’t answering her phone either. I can’t get a hold of anyone. Steve, please… be okay? Please call me.”_

Wish shaking hands, he thumbed at the call-back button and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Barton.” His voice was hoarse, his throat burned when he spoke. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, his mouth full of grit. “I don’t know if this phone is compromised or not, so keep it short. How quick can you get to DC?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, for those who don't watch the show:  
> Project Leda is the experiment that produced Sarah Manning and the Clone Club. It was absorbed by a semi-evil-ish civilian scientific institute and the clones were generally raised in civilian families to some extent. (I've only just finished S2, so I'm a little unclear about their current motivations. So, ish.) Project Castor is an identical experiment conducted by the military that produced male clones all raised in a military setting for what I feel like is safe to assume was at least vaguely nefarious purposes. To my knowledge, some of the Leda Clones were self-aware while others were not and all of the Castor Clones were self-aware.
> 
> And now, for those who have been following me on tumblr, it will probably be obvious why/how the title of this thing is an "In the Flesh" reference. It comes from the poem "Do Not Go Gentle into that Goodnight" by Dylan Thomas. In the series, Amy Dyer's epitaph is a line from the poem.


	9. Sharon/Now

“Eyes here!”

Sharon was drawn tight as a bowstring. She felt her world crashing down around her. Neal’s gaze slid toward her and then back to Sitwell at the front of the room. They’d agreed not to disclose that he’d been at Sharon’s apartment that night. They didn’t know who they could trust, especially after Pierce had called her onto the carpet. His questions had been too leading in some ways, too knowing in others.

It had been a quiet night, though most of her nights since she’d been assigned to Rogers were quiet. Less so when he disappeared for hours at a time, or didn’t come home. But he was easy to track when he kept his SHIELD phone on him, made predictable movements.

Sharon was happy when he didn’t come home. It meant he was with that friend he’d been running with the one that she watched him make predictable loops with around the National Mall. The one that she’d deduced he was spending time with in the cozy neighborhood just outside of the city-proper. The one she presumed must have some connection to the Outpatient Clinic in Glen Burnie—Steve’s phone often connected automatically to the Wi-Fi there.

She was happy that, whatever capacity the relationship held, Steve had found someone he was comfortable around. And for that reason, she refused to dig.

“Sharon, it’s your job to know everything.”

“Let the man have some privacy, Neal. There’s no discernable threat.”

“Whatever you say, Thirteen.”

“Shh.” She put her fingers against his lips, thwarting his attempts to reengage hers. She sat up, pushing up and away from the warmth of his body. “Do you hear that?”

“The music? Yeah. Rogers is home.”

“No. No he’s not. There was no motorcycle.”

“Maybe he got dropped off by that buddy?”

“No, he took the bike out this morning.” Sharon reached over the coffee table and grabbed her tablet. She tapped out a series of gestures to open up the secure software that would let her see into the apartment next door. It wasn’t a video feed—the place was already bugged, video and audio felt too invasive for a protection detail—but rather, a heat signature reading. She watched a solitary figure moved through the living room and into the bedroom, pausing by the windows, presumably closing the blinds. The figure made its way back to the living room and sat. “That’s not Steve.”

They watched the figure as it sat unmoving on the tablet screen for some time, the soft music of the record the person set on the Victrola filtering from the hallway into Sharon’s living room.

“Do we make a move?”

“Not yet. They’re not doing anything.”

“I didn’t hear a damned thing in the hall.”

“I know. It’s like they had a key.”

It wasn’t long until Rogers arrived home by the clock. Sharon had spoken to her Aunt earlier in the evening. She knew he’d gone to visit. It had been a bad day. Perhaps the person in Steve’s apartment was his friend, it would explain the apparent lack of a break in, the way whomever it was made themselves comfortable.

The engine of the bike cut off. Through her open window Sharon could hear Steve greeting someone else out on the street, his keys jingling as he fished them from his pocket.

“Once he’s inside, I need you to check the perimeter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sharon gathered the laundry from her bedroom, slipping her service arm into the top of the pile in her basket and her radio into the front pocket of the scrubs she was wearing. She opened her door just as Steve made it to the top of the stairs. “Hey, Steve.” She cast her brightest smile on him. He returned a more sober one and asked how her day was. “Long. You?”

He nodded, “Same… same. Hey, you, ah, you wanna use my washer?”

She raised a brow, “The one you’re not supposed to have according to building rules?”

He raised his brow and grimaced, “You caught me.”

Sharon laughed, trying to gauge his actual mood, trying to detect any movement behind the door. “How much would your washer cost me?”

“Ah,” He scratched at the back of his head and closed one eye looking down toward her feet. He was kind of adorable when he did that. Sharon felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when she sat in Aunt Peggy’s lap and looked through massive photo albums filled with sepia-colored photos and newspaper clippings and listened to her stories about adventures with Captain America and with Steve Rogers. “Cuppa’ coffee?”

“Steve, I—“

“I’m not tryin’a ask you out, Kate. Just tryin’a be a good neighbor. Throw your laundry in, let me make you a cup. Y’look exhausted.”

“Well, I worked a double. Infectious disease ward. And I’ve already got a load in downstairs, so…”

“Ooh. I’ll, ah, I’ll stay away then.” He laughed, the sound strained. She knew right where the point had landed.

Sharon adjusted her basket on her hip, “Not too far, I hope.” She started to turn toward the stairs and looked back nonchalantly, “Hey, I think you might have left your stereo on.”

“Hmm?” He paused, listening. “Oh, sorry. I hope it wasn’t bothering you. I don’t even remember turning it on this morning.”

“No problem, just didn’t want you to think someone was in there.”

“Thanks.”

Sharon bounded back up the stairs two at a time, light on her feet. She dropped her basket and put her pistol within easy reach. “Tapper, go.”

The rest was a blur.

She could remember saying _Foxtrot is down_.

She could remember Neal asking if she knew where the shooter was.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion until Steve took off, running after the sniper that had shot Fury through the wall.

Sharon felt like she’d lost more than a superior officer and an asset—she’d lost a friend, someone she’d known her whole life, someone who had taken her under his wing and helped shape her into the agent she was while her Aunt shaped the woman she was.

And now Sitwell was telling them to bury their ops. Telling them that Captain Rogers was a fugitive, that they were hunting him down.

“With all due respect, if SHIELD is conducting a man-hunt for Captain America, we deserve to know why.”

“Carter, right? Maybe if you’d done your job a little better, we wouldn’t be conducting a man-hunt.”

Neal sucked in breath, ready to argue. Sharon put out a warning hand, fingertips raw from scrubbing blood from her fingernails over and over again, feeling like she’d never be clean. He deflated. Sharon knew her value. She knew she couldn’t have stopped what happened.

“Why? Agent Carter? Because he lied to us.” Pierce strolled into the room, commanding attention. He didn’t belong there. He didn’t have the clearance. And yet, here he was, taking over. “Captain Rogers has information regarding the death of Director Fury. He refused to share it. He’s insubordinate. He’s a liability.” Sharon suppressed a laugh as he defamed some of the very qualities that made Steve _Steve_ that made him the right candidate for Rebirth, according to Aunt Peggy. Pierced continued to talk about what a failure as an agent Steve was, how the information he had was of the utmost importance. Sharon knew there were pieces missing. “As difficult as this is to accept, Captain America _is_ a fugitive from SHIELD. He needs to be brought down. I don’t care what any of your former loyalties were. I don’t care who you know, I don’t care who _you_ are.” Pierce looked very pointedly at Sharon and then back over the crowd of gathered agents. “I want him brought in as quickly as possible. No questions asked.”

He strode from the room, leaving Sitwell to issue further orders.

Sharon moved away from the group of agents she was standing near, Neal following casually at her side. “Where’s Maria?”

“Hill? I haven’t seen her. I thought she was in New York.”

“No,” Sharon slid her phone from her pocket and tilted the screen toward Neal so he could see the series of symbols on the screen. “She sent me a heads up, but never an all-clear. There’s something more to what’s going on. We need to find out what. We can’t let them bring Rogers in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam was probably based out of Fort Meade since that's where the Falcon wings are being kept when he was in active service. However, a quick peek at Google Maps puts the Fort Meade VA Outpatient Clinic at least an hour away from the National Mall where he runs. I highly doubt he's driving an hour just for a jog, even if he really really likes that spot. In spite of the fact that the Glen Burnie clinic has the highest wait times for appointments in the whole state, at only about 40 minutes away from the Mall, I thought that was more reasonable. Let's imagine a perfect world where that's no a problem. He lives somewhere in between the middle of DC and the clinic, in my imaginings.
> 
> Neal Tapper is involved with Sharon at the beginning of Brubaker's Winter Soldier event. There's not much to know about him. Even on the wikis, the only relevant information about him is that he was involved with Sharon and then died.


	10. Sam/Now

“It’s Sam, right?” The lady agent he’d come to know as Maria through Steve’s limited work stories and their brief and dramatic personal interaction spoke under her breath in the back of the vehicle they’d been loaded into. They’d been searched good and well, no chance of escaping by some creative means this time, the two black-suited agents seemed to feel secure enough to sit at ease rather than attention near the back doors.

Sam nodded in response to Maria’s question. His eyes were glued to Natasha’s ashen face. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining that she was still breathing or not. It was shallow, barely sufficient if it was real.

“Sam, I’m gonna be honest, we’re well and truly fucked.” She tilted her head toward the agents briefly. “These guys, they sound like complete assholes—and they kind of are, I… I know them. But, they’re the best of the best. Highly trained, total black ops ready.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?”

He was too numb to deal with this. He’d heard the gunshots just as clearly as Maria had.

Steve was gone.

Captain America wasn’t going to come swooping in to rescue them.

All of Sam’s years of training and combat wouldn’t help him now that he was disarmed, facing people who had nothing better to do but to hurt him if he glanced in their direction with the wrong expression on his face.

_Steve_ was gone.

“Because you deserve to know what you’re dealing with. This thing, these people… it’s something we thought had been eradicated. Decades ago.” Sam was confused for a moment. “Something Steve sacrificed his life to stop.”

Hydra. It was definitely Hydra, then.

They hadn’t been able to tell him much when they showed up at his house unannounced. They hadn’t been entirely sure what they were dealing with themselves. Neither one had really known if they could trust the strange AI that they had encountered, if it had been real or a trick of some kind.

“We’ve been working alongside them this whole time. Training them, teaching them, operating with them. They know all our moves.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one’a you.”

“Yeah.” Maria grew quiet for a moment. “They don’t know who you are, that much is perfectly clear. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible. Keep them occupied.”

“Steve’s dead.”

“What? No. I don’t think so.”

“They shot him, Maria. They fuckin’ shot ‘im.” Sam shuddered, sucking in breath.

“He’s too valuable.”

“You know we’re not deaf, right?” One of the agents looked toward them, incredulous.

“Fuck you.” It felt good to lash out, even in that small way.

They fell into silence for the rest of their ride. Sam couldn’t tell what direction they were heading in, they’d looped around too many times, he was too focused on Natasha, watching her for signs of life to ward off the apathy that was settling over him.

He didn’t struggle when they hauled him out of the back of the van. It was easier not to struggle. Less chance he would get hurt, higher chance he’d have the strength to do some damage of his own if the opportunity arose.

 “Take her to medical, now.”

“Brock, it’s not worth it. She’s barely got a goddamned pulse.”

“Take her to medical, _now_. She’s fuckin’ worth more alive.”

“She’s not gonna talk, those Russians are tough, the Widows… We can just scan her eyes before we dump her—“

“Do you really not have any idea how biometric scanners work? It’s not scannin’ _just_ her iris, it’s the goddamn whole thing, needs blood flow to read the capillary patterns.”

“I know but—“

“Fucking take her to medical!”

“But Brock, the _Soldier_ is—“

“If you’re not gone, with her, in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna put yer fuckin’ teeth down yer throat.”

Sam watched as they took Natasha down a corridor. There was the sound of a heavy door opening and closing, the distinct sound of electricity—the humming of a powerful generator—and stunted screaming, like there was something shoved in the person’s mouth.

Sam’s heart dropped down into his stomach.

Was it Steve? He didn’t think it could be, if he was honest with himself.

He never thought he’d hope someone he loved was being tortured, yet, here he was.

Sam went through the motions of being shoved into a conveniently placed cell and backing up to the bars to have his cuffs taken off after the door clanged loudly shut.

Someone he loved.

At least Sam had gotten to say it before they got ripped apart. A harsh sound, something like a laugh, tore its way up the back of his throat and echoed in the cell. Maria looked at him with concern. One of the agents outside smacked the bars with the stun baton they all seemed to carry and wield with no mercy.

Sam could be satisfied with the knowledge that he’d managed to tell Steve, even if he hadn’t been able to see an answer. He knew Steve loved him back.

He knew it.

Their relationship had been sudden and heated and filled with backsteps and sidesteps but it was _theirs_ and it had been the best thing that had happened to Sam in too long.

He knew Steve loved him and he’d gotten to tell Steve how he felt.

He could meet whatever the hell was coming for him with no regrets.

“They need Natasha and me for our clearance.”

“What?”

“They need us. They’re not going to kill us. They can’t override SHIELD’s security protocols. Natasha and I have two of the highest clearance levels in the agency. They need us.”

“That’s fine and dandy for you, but I’m no one.”

“They don’t know that, not for sure.” Maria stopped the circuit that she was pacing around the cell and sank down to the floor, leaning back against the wall. “You were with Steve. That means you’re important in some way. Means you might have information on Fury. Means they might be able to use you for some kind of leverage. They’ll keep you alive as long as they can believe that.”

“Fury?”

“Nick Fury, SHIELD Director, recently deceased.” Sam nodded, pieces clicking into place, the blanks that Steve and Natasha had left filling in slowly. He looked at Maria, taking her in in earnest for the first time. She was a hell of a woman.

“Wait… are we… are we in a bank?” The walls weren’t bare walls, they were covered in small doors with twin locks on them.

“It would appear that way.”

“We have to figure out where they took Natasha if we’re going to get out of here.”

Maria shook her head. “Natasha understands the risks involved with being a SHIELD agent. There’s no guarantee she’ll be alive if we find her. Trying to carry her out of here will put us in jeopardy.”

“I’m not leaving without her.”

“Then we might not be leaving.”

“So be it.” A look of relief flashed across Maria’s carefully composed features.

Sam alternated between pacing and sitting. He listened carefully to the flurry of activity around them, listened for the hum of that generator, listened for any sign that whomever was being electrocuted was still there. He studied what were evidently safety-deposit boxes on the walls, studied the tiles on the floor and ceiling, studied the ornate bars that caged them and closed over heavy steel doors on either side of the larger room the cell opened up into. It was an old bank, by the looks of it. He began to narrow down the possibilities in his head, trying to remember all the useless trivia he’d ever learned about DC since he’d been stationed at Fort Meade.

“Hello, Agent Hill.”

Sam stopped in his tracks, he knew that voice. This really went that far? The Senator they’d seen Sitwell with was a scumbag that was for sure— but the Secretary, too?

“Pierce.”

“Good to see you’re looking comfortable. It’s a nice seat to watch the new world order rise up from the dust in, isn’t it?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you—and I use the collective _you,_ SHIELD—are foolish and overly trusting.” Pierce smoothed the front of his crisp suit jacket. “I believe you’ve got some proof of completed objectives to show me?” He spoke to the man Sam had gleaned was called Rollins. The man nodded and went to fetch a memory stick. He plugged it into the nearest computer.

The footage looked like it was from a Go-Pro or a body cam. Sam was familiar with the grainy, shaky quality of the video from his time in the air and in combat. There was no audio.

Sam thanked God there was no audio.

He didn’t want to hear what they were saying as they dragged Steve through the mud on the bank of the Potomac. There were three other graves being hastily filled. It dawned on Sam that Steve believed _they_ were dead.

Why wasn’t Steve _fighting_? Why was he just letting himself be dragged? Why was he just hanging there between the Hydra agents’ arms?

They shoved and dragged and Steve remained as passive as ever.

They hoisted him up and dropped him into a wooden box.

Sam refused to call it a coffin.

They conferred, readjusted, closed the lid, and nailed it down.

And then they were putting him in the ground. They were filling in the hole and tamping the dirt down with their boots.

“I’m gonna be sick.” Sam moved as far back in the cell as he could and sank down against the wall in the corner.

“No,” Maria whispered, her hands gripping the bars with white-knuckled intensity.

Sam’s throat burned, his stomach flipped over.

Pierce looked over his shoulder, smug. He said something about being sure that Rogers was dead, they couldn’t afford to have him clawing his way out of the ground. Rollins assured him that Steve would run out of oxygen before he’d be able to move again. He’d suffocate. No one would be the wiser.

Sam’s stomach lurched and convulsed. He put his head between his knees and recited the name of every street he’d ever lived on from Harlem to DC to the base in Afghanistan. His hands trembled. His eyes stung with salty tears he tried to hold back.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed while he sat in the corner. He swatted Maria’s hand away when she came close, too raw for any kind of contact.

He’d told Steve he loved him. No regrets.

He had to pull himself together.

He couldn’t afford to fall to pieces, could let the vision of Steve in a box become visions of Riley in a box, couldn’t let the two morph together in his head into one big mess of _hurtandangerandconfusionandsickness._

He had to figure out how he was going to get out of the mess that was laid out in front of him.

“You.” Sam lifted his head, temples throbbing. “Yes, you. Get the fuck over here.”

Sam got to his feet slowly, looking the man called Rumlow dead in the eye.

A man Steve had trusted.

A monster and a jackass.

Maria watched carefully, getting to her feet quietly, a readiness in her posture.

“Whaddo you want?” Sam sucked back snot and spit, trying to look less wrecked and more determined.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“No one.”

“What the hell do you have to do with Rogers? Why did he mix you up in this shit?”

“No idea.”

Rumlow laughed, dark and low. “Gimmie yer hand.”

“No.”

“Gimmie yer hand or I’ll fuckin’ make you.” He lifted his baton just into Sam’s field of view.

Sam didn’t want to be zapped again. He put his hand up. Rumlow reached through the bars and grabbed his wrist, forcing him to press his thumb against a touchpad in his hands. Sam tried to wrench his hand away to no avail. The device beeped, a little green light flashed. Rumlow passed it off to some nameless Hydra drone.

Sam pulled back, yanking, trying to free his wrist. Rumlow grinned, his grip tight and unyielding. Sam spat hard, is lips curling into just the slightest smile when it landed square over the bridge of Rumlow’s nose.

Rumlow ripped Sam’s arm forward through the bars and bent it to the side. Sam’s shoulder strained in the socket. He gritted his teeth, waiting for freedom from either dislocation or Rumlow releasing his limb.

Rumlow wiped at his face with his free hand. “That’s strike one. The three of you aren’t as important as you’d like to think.”

“Sir? We’ve got a hit.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Samuel Thomas Wilson, 37. Staff Sergeant, Air Force. Pararescue, fifty-eighth. EXO-7 Flacon. Discharged honorably. Peer Specialist, VA Outpatient.”

“Hello there, Samuel Thomas Wilson.” Rumlow released his arm, shoving him backward as he did. “It’s nice to finally officially meet. I think we have a mutual friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I arrived at Sam being a Staff Sergeant for a number of reasons including his age, estimating the time he might have spent in active duty, considering that he was in pararescue and a Falcon, and his likely pay grade at the VA. If anyone has any different ideas or I've missed some cannon information indicative of his rank, please do correct me.


End file.
